


Chainbreaker

by Kendrene



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Smut, F/F, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 16:04:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13103721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kendrene/pseuds/Kendrene
Summary: Freedom.The word feels alien in her thoughts.“Iksan dāez.” She mumbles under her breath in high valyrian, flinching slightly as the words fall from her lips. Words such as these can cost a careless slave their tongue in Astapor - Missandei knows - although it’s also true that the Good Masters rule no more, ended in a storm of fire by the one she now serves.It will take her a while to get used to the idea of freedom, she thinks.ORMissandei harbors feelings for Daenerys and after the fall of Astapor she makes a move.





	Chainbreaker

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray in canon-ish Game of Thrones fiction. Please be gentle. 
> 
> \- Dren

_ Freedom _ .

The word feels alien in her thoughts. 

“Iksan dāez.” She mumbles under her breath in high valyrian, flinching slightly as the words fall from her lips. Words such as these can cost a careless slave their tongue in Astapor - Missandei knows - although it’s also true that the Good Masters rule no more, ended in a storm of fire by the one she now serves. 

It will take her a while to get used to the idea of freedom, she thinks.

“Anha zin seris.” Dothraki is far harsher, the consonants almost leaving her mouth bleeding, but it doesn’t shake her from her state of disbelief, as she’d hoped it would.

She gives a rueful shake of her head and goes back to staring in the mirror, wondering for the hundredth time if what she has in mind will be appropriate. She adjusts her sleeveless tunic, fingers nervously smoothing nonexistent creases off the cloth. The dress is simple, of a blue so light it looks almost spun from ice, but Missandei treasures it immensely, as it is a gift from Daenerys herself. 

She rolls her eyes at her own reflection, knowing perfectly well she will never be more ready than she is. Yet she lingers a moment longer, pushing a stray lock of hair away from her brow,  

Missandei whirls around and leaves her room before the doubts nipping at her heels have a chance to hold her back. She hurries down the sprawling corridors of the palace Daenerys’ entourage has taken over, for once completely blind to the painted vaults and riches amassed along each hallway. 

It always bothered her, to see such fortunes so freely displayed. Angered her even. 

That things of such breathtaking beauty, could exist within the walls of Astapor. 

Outside the closed double doors of Daenerys’ apartments, Missandei stops. Her courage wanes, like the guttering flame of a burnt-out candle, and she falters. 

The pair of Unsullied standing guard give her one curious look, but say nothing. It is not their place to question where the khaleesi’s translator goes. For all they know she could have been summoned. 

She knocks once, and when no answer is forthcoming she half turns to leave. Perhaps it’s for the best. 

But then Daenerys’ voice comes from within, clear like springwater. 

“Come.” 

She sounds tired, and Missandei is stabbed with guilt for her intrusion. 

But there is no turning back now, so she pushes one of the doors open just a sliver - enough for her to slip through.

“Missandei.” Daenerys rises from her chair, a frown creasing her brow. The table she has been sitting at is littered with maps and plates of food, which - MIssandei notes with worry - have gone untouched. 

“Has something happened?” 

“No khaleesi.” 

Daenerys sighs, but offers her a wary smile and gestures to an empty chair. 

“For a moment I thought the men of Yunkai appeared at the walls overnight.”

“They would not dare.” Missandei says assuredly, taking the offered seat, “they have heard of the Good Masters’ fate and do not wish to follow in their footsteps.”

“Yet Ser Jorah tells me they have hired several mercenary companies to defend themselves. the Second Sons among them. As far as I understand they have a honored history.”

“Mercenaries are only as good as the coin paying them, khaleesi. Once they are faced with the Unsullied and your dragons they will break, or beg to join you on their knees.”

Daenerys laughs at those words, but Missandei knows the sound is not fueled by scorn. The khaleesi - her Queen - looks beyond tired. 

“I wish I could be so optimistic. I try, but at every turn I see what could go wrong.”

“Khaleesi…” Missandei wets her lips and wishes her fingers would stop shaking, “if you don’t mind me saying, that’s what makes you a good leader.”

Daenerys offers her another smile, a soft, tremulous one as if she is unused to praise. 

“Thank you for saying that.” The khaleesi’s hands suddenly close around her own, and Missandei is invaded by warmth. Daenerys’ skin feels hot, her touch far warmer than anything she’s ever experienced before, and Missandei’s mouth runs dry. Her heart beats wildly, echoing the portentous snap of a dragon’s wings. 

She wishes to be as fierce as them, for what she plans to do.

“Somehow I do not think you’re here to discuss politics.” Daenerys’ unspoken question jerks her back to the now. 

“No khaleesi.” Missandei cannot meet those lilac eyes now, afraid that if she does she’ll be transfixed on the spot and her plan will go forgotten. “I am here for… a gift.”

“A gift?” Daenerys tilts her head to the side, face alight with curiosity. Here, away from the sycophants and courtiers she truly looks her years, and Missandei’s heart gives a painful twinge at the thought of the responsibility that is slowly crushing her.

She will do all she is able to prevent that.

“I don’t think it equates to what you did for me, khaleesi, or the people of this city, but I wish to give you something in return nonetheless.”

Daenerys only waits - politely - and Missandei is glad no more questions follow her statement. She slowly stands, a flash of regret burning up her spine when Daenerys’ fingers leave her own, but she needs her hands free anyway. 

Slowly, arms quivering slightly, she opens the clasp that holds her dress close behind her neck and the fabric falls off of her like water, with barely a whisper as it hits the floor.

“Missandei?” 

Daenerys’ eyes have widened, and her cheeks are tinted rose, but she makes no move to look away. Emboldened, Missandei steps out of the dress. 

She moves closer, until her thighs are almost brushing against Daenerys’ knees, and now she stares directly into the abyss of her eyes. Some of the candles have blown out, and they have darkened considerably, veering from violet to the deep blue of night. 

“You don’t have to do this.” The musical chimes of Daenerys’ voice sound hoarse, muted, as if she is struggling to breathe. 

“But I want to.” Missandei lowers herself to her knees and finds that the khaleesi’s gaze is far more bearable at this angle. She is back into familiar territory, in a place in which the chill that seeps into her bones from the floor tiles barely bothers her. 

“You don’t give yourself pause,” Missandei continues when Daenerys doesn’t  answer, “you don’t eat, you don’t sleep…”

Daenerys raises a hand and she goes quiet.

“How do you know of this?” 

Her Queen’s gaze has turned piercing, and Missandei has no choice but to answer.

“The Unsullied… Ser Jorah… they worry about you.” She bites her lower lip, fighting to not lower her eyes, speared on the spot by a stare that has made men far more powerful than her tremble.

“Have they put you up to this?” Daenerys’ fingers grasp her chin, so that Missandei can do nothing more than stare into her Queen’s face. A flash of anger sharpens Daenerys’ gaze, and Missandei almost expects the hold to turn cruel. But where a Good Master’s hand would have slapped her for her impudence, Daenerys’ fingers simply keep her in place, careful as if the khaleesi is handling a young mare that’ll bolt if she tugs the reins too harshly. 

“No!” Missandei is horrified at the suggestion, “no, I just… I want…” 

But under the weight of Daenerys’ undiluted attention words desert her. An hilarious situation for one who speaks more languages than there are digits on two hands.

Except that Missandei doesn’t find it funny in the slightest. Her cheeks don’t burn with lust now, but shame, and tears well up behind her eyelids. She’ll be lucky if her Queen will simply chase her out of the room. 

Her heart is a loud, continuous buzz that makes her ears hurt and her head dizzy, and Missandei feels as if all the words she’d like to say were now hell-bent on choking her. 

She wants to talk about the strange flutterings that seize her stomach whenever she stands beside her Queen during an audience, or when they stroll together through the dusty streets of Astapor, freed slaves competing to offer Daenerys the goods they now produce for their own gain, rather than some whip-carrying master.

She wants to tell Daenerys that she knows how solitary her nights are, for often she lingers just outside the door, her well trained hearing picking up on the quiet sobs the khaleesi tries to smother into her pillow.

Instead all she can do is hold back tears, mouth silently working like an idiot’s, and the stray thought flitters through her reeling mind, that this is how a bird on the verge of being crushed by a child’s hold must feel like. Panicked and helpless as chubby fingers inexorably close around its fragile wings.

“Missandei.” Her name falls from Daenerys’ lips like song, and gentle hands cup her cheeks, dusting a passing touch just below her eyes. Fingertips press slightly against her cheekbones, as if the khaleesi is trying to help her keep her inner turmoil under control. 

Then she is compelled upwards, more by Daenerys’ softening gaze than her touch.

The Queen’s hands fall away from her face, but come to rest against the dip of her hips a moment later. 

“You honor me.” Daenerys murmurs, guiding her into her lap, “but you won’t do that on your knees.” 

Missandei can barely nod, as busy as she is holding her breath, afraid that this will turn out to be a wishful dream and she will wake if she’s too loud, alone and aching on her cot. 

What grounds her to reality is the feeling of Daenerys’ lips ghosting over her own. The kiss starts slow and tentative, the whisper of a promise not yet come into fruition. But after a few moments of exploration, the khaleesi’s hand cradles the back of her head, and their mouths tangle firmly, their kiss so lasting they end up resting their foreheads together as they chase lost breath.

Missandei feels hot, a heat only comparable to the all consuming furnace of a dragon’s breath. Daenerys’ hands move again, inching down her neck, following the sweep of her collarbone and then moving lower to cup her breasts. Wherever her Queen - her lover - touches, Missandei’s skin burns, with a fire that is transforming rather than consuming. 

For the second time in her life she is choosing her own path - like she did when she decided to remain by the khaleesi’s side as her interpreter - and Missandei immolates herself upon her own desires, her very soul going up in smoke. 

But again Daenerys’ thoughtful hands keep her from oblivion, this time snaking down between their hard-pressed bodies to find the hidden heat between her legs. 

Missandei arches into the touch with a small gasp - she cannot help it - fear and anticipation whipping up a storm inside her that shakes her to her bones. She wonders fleetingly where Daenerys learned to touch another one like this, before her mind fragments into light at the feeling of the khaleesi’s other hand closing around one of her breasts. 

Her nipples are toyed with, pinched and pulled until they ache with a dull pain that spreads across her chest, until arousal spills out of her and into Daenerys’ waiting hand. 

Missandei lets out a small whimper and the khaleesi presses her mouth to her cheek in response, reassurances pouring into her ear.

When Daenerys’ fingers spread her wetness along her folds, gently stroking up and down her slit before circling her clit, Missandei shudders. She knows what’s coming next, and she dreads it as much as she desires it. She is no simple girl - she’s touched herself before - but she hasn’t been trained in the bedroom arts like the slaves Yunkai favors in its trades. 

Daenerys goes completely still, and Missandei’s eyes - which had drifted shut in the throes of pleasure - snap open.

“We can stop.” Daenerys looks at her, as open and vulnerable as Missandei feels, her lilac eyes swirling with emotions that neither of them could put a name to. 

“No,” Missandei manages, her hand covering Daenerys’. “No.” 

She is the one to close the distance this time, capturing the khaleesi’s lips with impatience, a sigh of welcome leaving her when Daenerys’ tongue resumes its duel with her own. 

When her lover pushes a finger inside her, slow and hesitant, Missandei moans, hips rolling forward in response. She gushes, all over Daenerys’ hand, and on her lap, but she is past caring about the mess her body makes. 

All that matters is the finger slowly sinking within her heat, drawing more of her wetness out when it retreats. Missandei’s hips give chase - desperately so - and Daenerys obliges the mute request, working a second finger inside her. 

A brief flash of pain laces Missandei’s vision with white - sky flowers exploding behind her eyelids, not unlike the ones the Good Masters used to purchase from the sorcerers of Qarth. 

After, the stretch becomes delicious, Daenerys expertly teasing her walls with every thrust of her fingers. All Missandei can do is throw her arms around her lover’s neck and ride her hand, head thrown back and mouth agape in bliss. 

Daenerys kisses her chin, her throat, her shoulders, all the while speaking to her, encouraging her to let go. 

A great weight starts to build inside her lower belly, a boulder that grows larger the more Daenerys’ fingers hit a certain spot inside her. Missandei shakes, caught in the embrace of the one they call the Stormborn, and indeed she feels like a galley lost among high seas, tossed and made into a plaything by waves buffeting her from every side.

“Give me everything. I have you,” Daenerys’ breath scorches her cheekbone, “I have you Missandei.”

She does, unable to hold back any further. Daenerys pumps her fingers one last time, twists them deep within her folds, and Missandei comes undone, so much arousal flooding down her thighs that she thinks she must have been carrying the the entirety of the Summer Sea inside without being none the wiser.

They lose track of time, get lost within the other and when they are too tired to carry on, they sprawl naked on the khaleesi’s bed, limbs entwined like the warp and woof of a tapestry. 

Missandei holds Daenerys close, a curtain of silver hair spilling onto her breasts as her lover lays her head on her shoulder. And slowly - finally - Daenerys succumbs to sleep. 

Hours later, as the sun rises over Astapor, its orange-pink light smeared like butter across the sky, they are roughly awoken by insistent knocking at the door. 

Ser Jorah calls for the khaleesi on the other side of the ornate wood, and a glance between her and Daenerys is all it takes for Missandei to flee the bed and hide deeper inside the Queen’s apartments, after having gathered up her clothes.

The knowledge that nobody can know what transpired the previous night leaves the taste of bitter ashes in her mouth. But in secrecy lies safety, and she understands that being too open about all this would make Daenerys liable to be blackmailed and Missandei herself a target. 

She dresses quickly and quietly, ears tuning in to the gruff tones of Ser Jorah’s voice. 

The message he carries chills her to the bone. 

“The Yunkish army will be here by sundown,” he’s saying, “they will lay siege, khaleesi.” Daenerys’ answer doesn’t carry.

Perhaps one day Missandei thinks, shoulders slumped back against a wall, they will share a bed again. She licks her lips slowly, her lover’s taste already gone, then she steals a glance into a nearby mirror to make sure no traces of their night remain.

Perhaps one day. But not this day. 

Neither tomorrow.

And while Missandei’s heart harbors no regret, it never beat so ponderous or heavy.

**Author's Note:**

> [follow me on TUMBLR for more stories and exclusive content](https://kendrene.tumblr.com/)


End file.
